The Wizard Who Meddled with Time
by Rowna Seria
Summary: In pursuit of a suspect with a Dark artifact, Harry is accidentally pulled back in time. But with the suspect nowhere in sight, it's left to Harry to discover what time he's in, if the suspect changed anything, and what he's going to do about it.


A/N:I'd like to give a huge thank you to me best friend Tiff, who helped me and proofread this, making it ten times better!

For the nitpickers: The first line is deliberate. That phrase bounced around in my head and is the direct inspiration for this story. I know it's a miss quote, but I've always felt "terrible" to be a more powerful word than "awful," and somehow that's the word that stuck in my mind. So, when researching the original quotes, (the one in the book is quite awkward out of context), I decided to keep the wording I misremembered because it's what really motivated me to write.

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**The Wizard Who Meddled with Time**

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**Chapter One: **One Step Forward, Ten Steps Back

_Terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time, Harry._

Hermione's words from all those years ago flashed in Harry Potter's mind, but it was too late. Everything happened so quickly.

Harry and his partner, a younger Auror named Martin Jones, stood outside the shack, ready to apprehend the suspect. Thomas Sutherland possessed a dark artifact of unknown power; neighbors had tipped off the Ministry that he intended to use it. He'd fled Auror's who'd come to his home earlier that week, and Harry led the manhunt that followed. They'd finally caught up, and Harry wanted to make a move before Sutherland had a chance to use the artifact.

Exchanging a quick nod with Jones, Harry burst through the door. He was nearly on top of the suspect when some instinct in Harry realized the man was about to escape. Without thinking, he lunged for the man's billowing robe. Right as his fingers closed around the fabric, he got a good look at the artifact for the first time, and it looked like a time-turner…

But he only had the opportunity for Hermione's words to flit through his mind before he watched the world melt away around them, accompanied by a strange, almost portkey-like tug. It felt as if some invisible hand was forcing them apart, and Sutherland's robe began to slip between his fingers.

Harry clutched harder, tried to bring up his other hand, but it was no use. His arm felt weighted down. The robe was eventually torn from his grip. He felt as if he was pitched into a dizzying free fall, without any sense of directions or ability to right himself.

Everything came to a sudden halt, as if his feet had struck the ground. He stumbled and fell over, rolling onto his back, feeling as if he were about to be sick. It was by far the most awful magical travel experience he had had yet.

After the world stopped spinning and he no longer felt like he was about to vomit, Harry righted his glasses and let his eyes slowly focus on the blackened ceiling. Outside the surf was pounding loudly against the rocks, the smell of salt and rotting seaweed mixing with the musty damp of the room as if it never had a chance to become completely dry. It was night and a storm was raging outside, wind whistling through the cracks in the walls, the rain driving against the walls and roof. But even in the near darkness, there was something familiar about the place.

Harry struggled to sit up after he was steady enough, and more confident he was indeed alone. With a muttered "_Lumos_," he held his wand high and took in the room, confirming his earlier suspicion.

This was the same cabin Uncle Vernon had taken them to in his mad dash to avoid the owls all those years ago. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry had recognized the place, but he had been too focused on pursuing Sutherland to give it any thought.

Once he cast a few unobtrusive spells and was certain no wizards were hidden nearby, Harry conjured a fire in the fireplace. When he first entered the room in pursuit, he thought the shack had been no more than the husk of a building. Now, in the flickering firelight, it looked exactly as he remembered, down to the moldy old couch and tattered blankets—the same, except for the surreal fact that he was now so much taller. Everything seemed shrunken, making the shack appear even more tiny and miserable.

Harry took a deep breath and considered what his next step should be. He'd only glimpsed the shack when he rounded the corner, as he practically ran Sutherland down in that small, confined space. It was pure instinct when he grabbed the man's robe. Maybe all those accusations that his desk job in the Auror department was making him soft had some merit. Harry sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. His first reaction should have been to _stun_ the suspect, or contain him by some other magical means. On the other hand, stunning Sutherland may have merely resulted in the suspect being transported to his new time or location incapacitated, but otherwise unreachable.

And that led Harry to the most disturbing question: had it really been a time-turner? He remembered the one Hermione used third year required them to wear the chain around both their necks in order to be transported. At the same time, Harry was not enough of an expert to know if something like the chain was _required_, or if this time-turner was different and merely grabbing the user's robes was sufficient. It was odd all around, as most magical forms of transportation utilizing an enchanted object, like a portkey, required one to physically touch the object itself. Then again, it might not even have been a time-turner. Or, it could have been an experimental and highly volatile—and therefore unpredictable artifact, seeing as all time-turners were tightly regulated by the Ministry, and this one obviously was not.

Either way, here he was. He doubted the shack had remained this unchanged throughout the years, so they must have gone back quite far. The question was: how far had the suspect gone after Harry lost hold of him? There was only one way to find out if Sutherland did not happen to be nearby: make contact with the wizarding world. Maybe he was back far enough that no one would know him personally, but maybe not. He would have to disguise himself. His jumpy, somewhat trigger-happy post-war self would react badly if they were to meet, and if they'd gone even _farther_… well, everyone had always said he looked remarkably like his father. Even if he was much older now than his father had ever been, he doubted the resemblance had significantly diminished.

His thoughts drifted momentarily to Ginny and Lily, who were waiting for him at home, to the boys at school, wondering what this could mean for them, but quickly pushed the thoughts aside. It would not do to dwell on them now. He had to find out what was going on, if the suspect was still at large, if he had _changed_ anything.

He considered going to the Ministry, perhaps contacting someone in the Auror Office, but decided a late night confrontation might not be the best, at least until he had a better grasp of the situation. Anyone staffing the night shift was probably fairly new, or in the middle of an investigation and sleep deprived. Not the best people to go to with hair-brained time travel stories.

Then a plan of action crystallized in his mind. He would thoroughly search the area, just to be absolutely certain Sutherland was not concealed nearby, and then proceed to Diagon Alley mildly disguised. There he could get his hands on a copy of the daily prophet and get his bearings. If it still seemed like the best option, he could go to the Ministry that day.

A quick tempus charm told him it was nearly one o'clock in the morning. He ought to get a move on; it looked like he was in for another sleepless night.

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_I'm getting too old for this_, Harry thought as he appeared at the apparition point for Diagon Alley at about seven o'clock in the morning. Pulling an all-nighter was no longer the breeze it had been. Even so, sleep would have to wait. After he concluded his search, he had rested for a few hours in the shack, but he wanted to get going early. The sooner he had a handle on the situation, the better. He knew of a small café that served coffee, tea and pastries early in the morning, along with copies of the Daily Prophet. He needed the caffeine boost and a croissant before anything else.

Disguising himself was one of the requirements for Auror training that Harry had never been good at. His hair stubbornly resisted almost all magical alteration, and usually refused to lie flat or even curl. Therefore he tried to keep things simple. With a bit of finicky wand work, he could change his hair's color, and he hid his scar, of course. And so it was a man with light brown hair and smooth features everyone saw walking down the street.

After getting his drink and fluffy pastry, Harry snagged a seat at a little table outside and unfolded the Daily Prophet. Ignoring the headlines, he looked straight at the date: July 31st, 1991. He felt something twist in his gut—it was his _birthday_, but… the shack…

He began to quickly scan through the Prophet, looking for anything that could give him a hint as to what was going on. Most of it was typical reporting: political backbiting, sensational crime, Fudge trying to cover for Ministry blunders, eccentric magical accidents, until he came to a little item tucked in the corner of the society pages. His eyes were involuntarily drawn to the heading:

**THE BOY WHO LIVED WILL BE ATTENDING HOGWARTS**

_Followers of "The Boy Who Lived" will be delighted to hear that the rumor Neville Longbottom would not be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was completely unfounded._

_After much speculation it has been confirmed by a reliable source, who wishes to remain anonymous that Longbottom will be attending Hogwarts this year. "We weren't sure he'd get his letter, but after I—well, he was accidentally dropped out the window at eight and bounced, you know, it was only a matter of time."_

_Longbottom has lived quietly with his grandmother since the tragic death of his parents and the miraculous disappearance of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Always weary of the public Augusta Longbottom has raised her grandson in relative seclusion on the family estate._

_"He's a sensitive boy," said a near relation, "what with the loss of his parents. I've never met a kinder, sweeter child."_

_"His grandmother is so over-protective, you know," said Helen Marsden, a witch who attended Hogwarts with Longbottom's parents, "I wouldn't have been at all surprised if she decided to keep him at home."_

_"I think it's a travesty," said Jamie Burns of the Daily Prophet's Public Persons Office, "we deserve to know more. That old bat can't keep the poor boy locked up forever."_

_One wizard expressed concerns regarding sending the boy to school, "He won't have the same kind of protection he'll get at home behind family wards. I know the school's a fortress, but you can't keep constant tabs on so many students."_

_Burtha Mills had a different opinion, "There's nowhere safer while Dumbledore's Headmaster. Everyone knows he's the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of."_

_Yes, Albus Dumbledore: Headmaster of Hogwarts, Order of Merlin First Class…_

Harry Potter sat back in shock. He'd skimmed it through several times, but somehow his mind couldn't catch hold of the concept. Neville Longbottom, _the Boy Who Lived_? It seemed too bizarre, almost a joke, except that it would be nearly impossible to carry any joke this far.

The traffic in Diagon Alley was beginning to pick up—witches and wizards scurrying to work, others doing a bit of early shopping. The door to the café now had a long line, but the street may as well have been empty, so consumed was Harry by shock.

What had Thomas Sutherland _done_?

Was there a past-self turning eleven today? Was he, Harry, even alive? Had he even been born?

Harry no longer knew what to do, there seemed to lie before him an impossibly huge unknown. It felt as if a rug had been yanked out beneath his feat, what, or even, who could he rely on? He felt desperately alone in a way he had never experienced before. Slowly his eyes drifted down to the table where the Prophet had slipped from his nerveless fingers. At first, he stared at the page without really seeing it, but then his eyes focused on one line: Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts…

The little voice in his head sounded suspiciously like a young Hermione: _Go talk to Dumbledore, he'll know what to do_. Harry wasn't quite sure about the last, knowing as he did now about Dumbledore's very real human frailty, but if anyone were to believe him, it would be the Headmaster.

After making a quick run to Flourish & Blotts for a quill, ink, and parchment, Harry sat down to try and compose a satisfying letter. He did not want to reveal too much—an old habit from the war when owls were always being intercepted, but at the same time he needed to reveal enough so that Dumbledore might be interested in responding while avoiding sounding like a compete nutter with serious delusions.

Harry had been puzzling over what to write for nearly an hour and had just thrown down his quill in frustration when he heard a familiar booming voice call out, "Hullo, Harry!"

His head whipped up, but Hagrid was not speaking to him. Instead he was crouched over a small boy with familiar, messy dark hair. The boy's back was turned, but Harry was filled a prickling sensation at the thought that this must be his younger self.

"An' Lily, how are yeh? Yeh look lovely today."

Harry's eyes widened when he noticed the woman with long, red hair standing next to the boy. He stopped breathing, and all thought was pushed out of his head by the pounding of his heart.

"I'm good, Hagrid, thank you," she replied sweetly.

She turned just enough for Harry to catch a glimpse of her profile. She was smiling widely, "What brings you to Diagon Alley?"

"Yeah, Hagrid, anything fun? We're here for my school things!"

The boy's piping treble shocked Harry back to his senses and he quickly lifted up his paper and pretended to read—it wouldn't do to be caught with his eyes bulging and his mouth gaping like a fish. Even so, he risked a glance over the top of the page, and strained to hear every word of their conversation.

"Hogwarts business," said Hagrid, drawing himself up proudly.

"What kind of business," asked the little Harry—had his voice ever really been that high?

"Top secret, that" said Hagrid, relaxing and leaning in conspiratorially and winking, "so don't go asking any more questions, because I can't tell yeh. Sorry I missed yer birthday, did yeh get the cake I sent?"

"Er…yeah."

"It was _lovely_, Hagrid, and so thoughtful," interjected Lily, covering the boy's unenthusiastic response.

"It was no trouble," and from his pleased tone, it was obvious Hagrid remained blithely unaware of the cake's dubious reception. Turning back to Harry he said, "Get any good presents?"

"My godfather gave me an owl!" Harry piped up, obviously excited, "I named him Ignotus. He's a black barn owl. Sirius says the dark marks around his eyes reminded him of my glasses."

Hagrid nodded approvingly, "Ruddy useful, owls. Now yeh won't have any excuse not to write yer mum."

"No he won't," said Lily fondly, ruffling young Harry's already messy hair.

The boy let out an exasperated, _"Mum,_" and tried to duck out of her reach. Lily and Hagrid just chuckled.

"Well, we don't want to keep you, Hagrid. It was good to see you again," said Lily.

"Likewise," replied Hagrid before turning his hulking form to the boy, "Yeh have a standing invitation to visit once school starts, Harry."

"Okay!"

They said their goodbyes and Lily drew her son around, turning to walk directly towards Harry. He could feel himself clutch the paper harder, but they didn't spare him a glance and continued down the street. Hagrid's hulking form had loomed off in the direction of Gringotts.

Harry was transfixed by a deep, two-fold pain. On the one hand, he had seen his _mother_, and there was no doubt in his mind it was her. The dreams, the shadowy memories, the specters, the photographs, seemed pale, and gave no justice to the vibrant woman he had seen before him—she was so much more human, so _alive_ in a way he'd rarely seen. And his younger self, it was hard to believe it really was him—reminded him so much of his own children. The way the boy had ducked out of his mother's reach was just like James at that age, too "cool" to accept affection in public.

He was doing a poor job of looking inconspicuous, with the paper frozen in his grip, but it felt as if someone had hit him with _patrificus totalus_. In some vague way he had known he might come across his past self, but nothing—not even his previous experience with the time-turner third year, prepared him for this.

Eventually his mind freed its self from shock, and the details began to filter back. Something felt off. Hagrid said he'd missed Harry's birthday, but it wasn't even noon. At the same time, Harry would have been prepared to _swear_ that was a younger version of him, that it was his mother, albeit older than he'd ever seen.

It was too much, he needed sleep, he needed food, and he needed something at least a little bit familiar that actually made sense.

Looking down a the draft of the letter the appearance of Hagrid interrupted, Harry wondered if this new knowledge changed what he wanted to write. The wording was awkward, and he had no idea what Dumbledore would make of it, but he had to try. It was a lot to take on alone, and Harry liked to think that with age he had learned when to ask for help—at least some of the time. Deciding to revise the first few sentences, Harry quickly scrawled out a final copy, sighed over his messy handwriting, finally sealed and addressed the letter.

There was an owlery that sent post out for a small fee in Diagon Alley. He remembered Mrs Weasley mentioning using it to send large packages when poor, old Errol wasn't up for the trip. On the way there, however, Harry passed Eyelops Owl Emporium, and was overcome with a sudden morbid curiosity. His younger self, if it really _was_ him, had mentioned he already had an owl…

As Harry pushed open the door he felt almost as if he were under the Imperious Curse as he stepped into the dim shop in a haze. It was as he remembered, dimly lit and musty with the smell of birds. Harry's eyes roved over the owls crammed into every corner, many were sleeping, some were shuffling on their perches and hooting softly. He seemed almost not to see them until his gaze instantly focused on a spot of white. And there she was, beautiful and no less familiar for the intervening years: Hedwig—or rather, the owl he would have named Hedwig. She was proudly perched, waiting for a large hand that would never come to pluck her down, at least not this time around.

"Good eye," said the shopkeeper, who'd seemed to materialize at Harry's elbow.

He'd been so startled he'd almost drawn his wand on the man, and mentally berated himself for letting his guard down. But if the shopkeeper noticed the flinch, he gave no sign.

"Proud one, she is, but a good bird. Very smart. Not the owl for just anyone. You've got to treat her right."

"I know," said Harry without thinking, and he saw the shopkeeper's slow smile out of the corner of his eye.

He couldn't leave her here, he just couldn't, and, to be fair, he did need an owl…

Harry felt ridiculously happy, leaving the Emporium carrying Hedwig in one hand and a bag of owl treats in the other. He'd never purchased another snowy owl—it would have been too much like trying to replace Hedwig, and that simply was not possible. While part of his mind wondered if this was a similar betrayal, the other was almost obscenely pleased to have her back. Going on what little of her behavior he'd seen so far, it seemed as if she already knew him, and _remembered_, as impossible as the idea was.

Besides, he couldn't have left her in the stuffy shop for some unknown length of time until another wizard bought her, it just wasn't an option. Call it loyalty, or foolishness, or downright selfishness, Harry refused to feel any guilt about the possible ramifications. History had already changed, hadn't it? Everything was already so mixed up a little self-indulgence wouldn't hurt anything. And, oh, what a relief it was to be no longer quite so alone.

It was only when he dug out the Galleons needed to pay for a room and the Leaky Cauldron that the foolishness of his purchase finally began to sink in. Hedwig had made his wallet considerably lighter, and without a Gringotts account—one that was really _his_, and no job, it might be all the money he had for some time.

Cutting small talk with the owner Tom short, he made his way slowly up the dilapidated staircase to the tiny room he'd rented.

Setting Hedwig down on the end table near the bed, which took up almost the entire room, Harry said, "Looks like it's just you and me," —he almost added, "again," but held himself back.

Opening the door of the cage, he offered her an owl treat, saying, "I know we only just left the Emporium, but I do have a letter for you, if you're up for the journey… give your wings a bit of a stretch," Hedwig seemed to perk up in interest, "It's for Albus Dumbledore, I think he's at Hogwarts, but no one really knows where he goes over the summer, so don't feel too bad if you can't find him."

Hedwig held her head high as if insulted Harry could even think she might be incapable of delivering a letter.

He chuckled as he tied the letter to her outstretched leg, "I'll be waiting here at the Leaky, or somewhere nearby."

Harry sighed as he watched her fly away through the window, filled with a deep melancholy. He was so tired. Too many things had happened in the last twenty four hours, and his mind was so stuffed with conflicting thoughts he longed for a Pensieve.

With the window still open, he stacked up some pillows and lay back with a perfect view outside, not that this part of London was particularly scenic. He resolved to lie down a bit, possibly take a quick nap, and then try to investigate further. Maybe he could do like Hermione would and find a book covering recent wizarding history, or Voldemort. He felt his eyelids droop as he wondered what Ron would suggest, thoughts drifting aimlessly to Ginny, the kids, and then… just before he nodded off, he wondered: if his mother was still alive, was his father?

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A/N: I'd love to hear any comments, and if I got some minor detail wrong, do tell. (Besides those things which are obviously different on purpose, of course.) There are too many names, spells and artifacts to keep track of! I'm doing me best to research everything, but I'm only human and it's been a while.


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